


Postcards from Heaven (the Five Stages of Grief)

by sailwordb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drabble, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning, Heaven, Loss, M/M, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailwordb/pseuds/sailwordb
Summary: James and Lily Potter weren't supposed to die. They weren't supposed to leave their son behind. Alone, lost and struggling.Be that as it may, here they are. Grappling with grief and loss and peering down below to watch their only child.Sending postcards from heaven to try and say goodbye. To try and help him survive.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Kudos: 5





	Postcards from Heaven (the Five Stages of Grief)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Postcards by The Blizzards. A drabble of sorts that has been floating around in my head for over a year now, All Hallows Eve seemed like a good day to start sharing.  
> More chapters to follow soon!

His wife was yelling. More accurately she was screaming. Full on cursing, hand waving, hair flying, foot-stomping screaming. 

She’d been at this for nearly- well, time didn’t seem to work quite the same here. If pushed to specify James would have guessed fifteen minutes. But he’d also feel comfortable saying ninety, or even ninety seconds might be accurate. He wondered if this should bother him, this absence of linear time. This lack of control. 

It would probably irritate his wife to no end. If she ever stopped her current ministrations of course. He looked over at her, tuning back in in time to catch-” _ stupid _ , sodding, Dumbledore! Who on earth would think-” she stops to catch her breath, her chest heaving, face red and her eyes landing on him for the first time in a while. 

She almost looked surprised to see him there. Or perhaps just at his current prone state on a surprisingly comfy armchair not unlike the ones in Gryffindor tower, a steaming cup of tea clutched in his hands. Lily abandoned her previous thought and crossed the room, throwing herself into the accompanying chair that he somehow hadn’t realised was right beside him.

“Why are you so calm?” she bit, crossing her arms.    
  
“I’m not really.” More to avoid elaborating than anything he takes a sip of his tea. James nearly expects it to burn his tongue, but of course it's at just the right temperature. Strictly speaking, he didn’t actually make this tea, so he had no idea of how long he had needed to wait for it to be the appropriate temperature. He wondered if all cups of tea here were like this. 

Oddly enough, he thought he might miss the whole ritual of making a cup of tea. There was something calming about the process. The ritual of it all. Boiling water, the steeping of the teabag, adding just the right amount of milk, waiting until it was the perfect temperature..    
  
A glance up told him that he had accidentally said that out loud. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Probably because he was used to voicing these errant little thoughts to Padfoot or sometimes his distracted co-workers, or exhausted Order members. He feels a pang deep in his chest, and turns his thoughts away from them, instead looking at Lily, whose distinct green eyes were narrowed dangerously.    
  
“That’s what you’ll miss?  _ Tea _ ?” her voice was terrifying in its even, measured tone. “Not our son, our friends, our lives?”   
  
“Lily... Don’t.”   
  
She seems taken aback by his brevity and the anger lingers on her delicate, familiar features for only a moment before fading away to something soft, and altogether more fragile. She draws her legs up to her chest, wrapping an arm around them. She looks very small.   


James figures that if he could feel anything at all he’d be worried about her, instinctively reaching out to hold her, console her. But something tells him that they’re not quite ready for that yet. Ready to share in and acknowledge their profound loss, their grief. Whether he means Lily or himself, he isn’t quite certain. 

“I just don’t-” she stops and runs a hand through her hair, letting out a long and frustrated sigh. When her eyes meet his, they are alarmingly glassy. She blinks rapidly, tilting her face towards the ceiling. James follows her line of sight; the patterned cream tiles remind him a bit of his parents house, of the living room where he’d spent countless hours, both as a boy and as an adult. He wonders what will become of it now. Now that- 

“James, why aren’t you- Why are you so.. Okay? I’m not able to just-” she gestures vaguely at the room they have ended up in, her face wane and drawn. 

“You seem to be forgetting I er... arrived here a bit before you did.”   
  
“Meaning?”   
  
“Meaning there wasn’t always a window there.” he canted his head towards the wall opposite them, and Lilys eyes widened almost comically. Just beyond the roughly shapen and splintered porthole window they can see a broad and deep lake, blanketed by rolling green hills. He hasn’t gotten any closer since he smashed the (rather impressive he might add) hole in there, and the tranquil scene is too eerie to reckon with.    
  
“Oh.” This seems to have silenced her for a moment. At least this has ceased her frustrations with him. Temporarily at least.    
  
“Mm, yeah. Tea helps I think.”   
  
“Yeah, where on earth did you get tea?” Lily demanded. “I wasn’t offered any tea.”    
  
There’s a barely audible  _ pop _ , and Lily turns towards the noise. Warily, she grabs the lilac coloured mug off the small table, bringing it to her mouth. She barely manages to place it back on the table, the mug colliding briefly with the side of it but managing to stay intact. 

One trembling hand flies out, brushing his arm for a millisecond before he’s linking his own fingers with her, gripping so tight he’s sure he’ll hurt her. 

_ Are you okay? _ He wants to ask. But he’s never envisioned asking a stupider question. James isn’t sure he could handle the sight of his wife, so fierce and unrelenting, crumbling before him. He thinks that question might just do the trick. Instead he turns to her and asks:    
  
“How's your tea?”   
  
“Strange. It’s already at just the right temperature.”    


Figures. 

Their eyes meet, and recognition, weary and splintered passes through them like a fierce winter wind. James holds on to her tighter and she squeezes back,  _ one, two.  _

Lily sips at her tea, turning to watch the scenery through the window. The lake so like the one at Hogwarts, and yet just different enough to make one uncomfortable. She's so still, her face unblemished and her clothes clean. The gentle breeze flickering through her hair the only semblance of a reminder that this is  _ real _ . That she isn’t just a portrait. This is their reality now, and most likely forever. 

So, James thinks, this is  _ other _ . 

  
_ The Five Stages of Grief.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Any kudos, and constructive comments or feedback much appreciated! :)


End file.
